


Zevran's Top 4 Recommended Skills for Continued Successful Survival

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: Zevran's only lived as long as he has by being very observant, very smart, very sly, or very attractive. Sometimes, he must be all four in a single evening.





	1. The Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurlana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurlana/gifts).

Zevran's only lived and thrived for as long as he has by being very observant, very smart, very sly, or very attractive. Reflecting back on his life with the wisdom of age, he can safely say those four traits are what's made him so happy, successful, and fascinating. Not that it was easy, of course. Why, sometimes he had to be all four of those things in one single night.

"You're summing up your life… your whole life… with a story about what happened three nights ago?"

"Hush, Alistair, you are breaking the magic of the bardic tradition. I am weaving a story -- no, _a tale._"

"Oh, Maker."


	2. The First Skill: Be Very Observant

It's getting late when Zevran slips away to see to his nightly ablutions and later still when he returns. There are tense voices from the other side of camp. Leliana and Wynne are still talking by the campfire where he left them. Sten and Barkspawn are patrolling. Morrigan is talking to Sandal (probably about enchantments). So it's fighting amongst their Wardens, then.

That could prove horrible for many reasons. They're short in numbers as it is, treaties or no, it makes little sense for Alistair and Sereda to have a falling out now.

Sure enough, when he edges along the tree line to get a better idea of the situation, he sees both of them. He's got his arms crossed tightly across his chest and she's avoiding his look and toying with the daggers on her belt. Zevran doesn't need to be able to hear the words when the tone is so clear, and then Sereda stalks quickly over to her tent. When she turns to unlace the stubborn ties, he can see tears on her face, the poor thing.

Not a regular disagreement then. Morrigan and Sereda fight often and it comes to shouts and threats of blows before it comes to tears.

Perhaps something about the Taint they share, the coming Blight… Zevran knows they both worry, that they both feel the Blight's filthy pull on their minds, especially at night. He ought to speak to them, perhaps try being very charming, and make sure they will both be alright.

Zevran knows if Sereda had tears in her eyes, she will not be up for company tonight; she's far too proud. A noblewoman of any race does not wish to have anyone see them cry. Zevran will leave her to her privacy and check up on her in the morning.

Alistair was still standing a few feet away, still radiating tense energy that Zevran can almost feel in the air. On closer inspection, he doesn't seem angry either.

When Alistair is angry, his shoulders straighten out, he holds himself higher, like he's spoiling for a fight. There's been rumours, of course, that spread across Fereldan and Orlais, that of the old king's bastard son got shipped out to a Chantry outpost in Fereldan to be a templar and hopefully die from it. Zevran's heard the rumours and he knows they're nonsense, but when Alistair is angry, he almost seems like he could be a noble prince, full of righteous fury and strong posture.

Tonight, that Alistair is nowhere to be seen. He's out of most of his armour, just his gambeson over shirtsleeves and breeches, so of course he seems smaller, but right now he looks rather like a rain-soaked standard drooping on its staff. Sad, alone, too close to the ground. He slumps into himself, hugging his arms across his chest and staring over towards the fire with eyes that are not seeing anything.

Zevran steps out from the trees to stand with him. "Ahh, Alistair. A word?"


	3. The Second Skill: Be Very Smart

Later, after Wynne and Leliana are gone to bed and Morrigan's exhausted all of Sandal's extensive conversation topics and drifted away from the centre of camp, Zevran pours a small measure of his Antivan brandy into Alistair's mug and passes it over.

"That must have been very uncomfortable for you," he says, taking a nip from the flask before putting it away.

"_Uncomfortable._" Alistair says the word like it's as painful to say as it is to hear. "I wish it had only been uncomfortable. It was downright awful."

"She cried."

Alistair drops his head to his hands. "Don't remind me. I didn't know what the more embarrassing part was for her; that I was saying no or that I was seeing her cry."

"Does it have to be all so embarrassing? She asked you into her bed, you declined politely… You were polite, yes?"

Alistair looks up sharply. "Yes! Of course. And you don't get it, you've probably never turned anyone down before."

"Because only the most fabulous people would proposition me? Or because you think, wrongly, that I will tumble into bed with anything that moves?"

Alistair groans and buries his face again. "I'm sorry, Zevran, that was unfair. I only meant you've probably never had to tell someone you like them very much as… as brothers in arms, but you're not…"

He's putting all the pieces together. "You're not interested in women. No, you're right, I've never had to have that conversation."

"I didn't say that," Alistair says. He shifts in place, almost imperceptibly, but Zevran sees it and feels his demeanour shift instantly to cold.

Zevran holds his hands up like he would to calm a spooked creature. "Alistair, my friend, I can read between the lines. I am a very smart man."

Alistair holds his stare for what feels like a very long time, until he finally breaks it to take a sip of his brandy. When he's finished coughing and spluttering, he hands the cup back to Zevran.

"Fine. Say I am sort of… entirely interested in men."

"You _are_ entirely interested in men. If you weren't, you would probably have at least considered sleeping with Sereda. Besides being a Warden like yourself, and a true friend to all of us, she's funny, she's smart, she's deadly with a knife, which I should tell you we Antivans find to the number one predictor of prowess in the boudoir, and she's very beautiful."

"Deadly with a -- really? How? Why? Don't tell me." Alistair cycles through the questions about as quickly as most non-Antivans do when they find out.

"And if you weren't entirely interested in men, you wouldn't spend so much time staring at my shapely ass."

Alistair takes a deep breath. By the firelight, even though it's not as robust as it could be, Zevran can tell the tops of his ears are turning red. "Pass me back my drink. I'd like to choke again. With luck, I'll die this time."

"It's a very nice ass, Alistair, please don't feel ashamed. You know I'd show it to you if you asked, yes?"

"My drink. Now. _Please._"


	4. An Interlude

"Is it too late to go back and revise my title?"

"To what? You somehow thought of something wordier?"

"No, I thought of a fifth element that's been crucial to my continued successes."

"Zevran, I swear… if you're about to say 'a shapely ass' --"

"Fine, fine, we can leave the title."


	5. The Third Skill: Be Very Attractive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating went up this chapter, be aware!

"Remind me again, did you say... you've done this... before?" Zevran manages the entire question between eager kisses.

Alistair murmurs something that Zevran can't understand with their mouths sliding together like they are. He tries to ask again, but Alistair's fingers find a way up under the back of his shirt and further questions are lost in infinite distractions.

Zevran is divested of his clothing at a relatively swift rate, a bit faster than he was intending. He calls for a halt, pushing Alistair back onto the bedroll. "Slow and steady," he says.

Alistair blinks up at him, all wide, dark eyes and bitten lips parted slightly. "I'm sorry," he says and his voice comes out in a rasp. Zevran's mind freezes entirely for a split second, just a stutter and a dead stop for a moment too long before he can snap his mind back to the present. 

"Oh, that did sound like an admonishment, didn't it? I simply meant that we ought to take the time that we've been given tonight to… Well, let us not rush through it."

Alistair bites back a laugh and shifts on his elbows. It takes his whole energy from wide-eyed ingénue to smirking harlot in a moment. He stretches out one leg and nudges the inside of Zevran's thighs with his knee. "You'll tell me then, if I'm going too fast?"

"I will," Zevran says, shoving Alistair's leg to the side. "Now, I think you have me at an unfair disadvantage."

"I'm the one flat on my back."

Zevran just smirks and reaches for the laces on Alistair's breeches. It's the easiest thing in the world to get them off of him. Zevran files that information away in case there may be another opportunity to use it later on.

He picks up a whole selection of new facts to file away after stretches out beside Alistair on the bed roll and begins investigating. Zevran believes no stone should be left unturned in the quest for riches, righteousness, and the restrained little moans Alistair lets out every time Zevran nips at his collarbone.

"Is this not rushing it?" Alistair asks. He's panting, he's dazed and ruffled, almost as if they'd been doing a lot more than kissing and touching. Zevran laughs and presses a few more kisses at the scar running lengthways up Alistair's sternum.

"That's right, love. This is slow and steady. How are you liking it?"

There's squeaky moan in reply. Zevran has heard that sound before, even made that sound before, and he knows it's a request for 'more.' And he'd never deny a fellow noisemaker such a polite request.

For all he'd been the one to caution against haste, Zevran's also the one to casually swallow down the length of Alistair's cock like it's nothing. It's not _nothing,_ of course, it's fucking glorious. There's the hot, heavy feel of Alistair in his mouth, the musky, salty smell, and the too-loud, startled-but-melting-into-blissed-out keening noise. It's the perfect combination, and that's before the bruising grip Alistair has on the back of his neck that sets Zevran off in a way it probably shouldn't but always has.

Suddenly there's no time to waste. Alistair thrusts up, remarkably controlled for a man who's obviously been denying himself for a while judging by the noises, into Zevran's mouth. It's enjoyable in the extreme for all of ninety seconds until it's over.

When Zevran pulls away and wipes his hand across his mouth, Alistair is hiding his eyes with one arm thrown over his face.

"Are you all right, love?"

Alistair mumbles something quietly before sighing and sitting up. He finds his discarded breeches and covers himself up. "Sorry, I just… sorry."

"Apologies are like the delicate scent of magnolia blossom," Zevran tells him.

It's getting harder and harder to make anything out as the campfire outside burns down to embers, but Zevran knows Alistair is studying him closely.

"How?" he finally asks.

"Frequently elusive. Nice, but not as nice as poetry says they ought to be. Others may kill for it, but I find my life just as rich with or without."

Alistair barks out a laugh. "You are…"

"I am certainly a lot of things. Did you have fun?"

"I did," Alstair says, a mite too quickly. There's a pause. Zevran reaches out in the gloom and rests his hand on Alistair's shoulder. "I just wish it had... lasted longer."

"Slow and steady, I understand. The night is nowhere near over, unless you wish it to be."

"Well... I don't think I can do what you just did."

Zevran chuckles. "I think you'd surprise yourself. It's very instinctual, and I've seen you move on the battlefield. You've got excellent instincts, Warden. But no, I'm not saying you must or you ought to do anything specific. Just that we might enjoy each other's company for as long as we like, or until other needs must be attended to."

Alistair relaxes, a little more tension draining from the set of his shoulders where Zevran's thumb is tracing small circles. Zevran thinks he'll speak again, but Alistair leans in instead and presses them back into the bedroll again and into a searing kiss.

"Yes, excellent instincts," Zevran says again, when he gets enough air to breathe.

Alistair laughs, breathlessly fumbling and warm against Zevran's mouth. "Thank you. You're very… You're gorgeous, did you know that?"

"I know, yes. But you can keep saying it, if you like. I daresay I'll never tire of hearing it."

"It's been hard to concentrate sometimes, you know," Alistair says. "With you nearby. You're too damned attractive, it's not fair."

"Oh, now, do continue."

Zevran had an image in his mind, an idea of how this evening was going to go, ever since Alistair took a second drink, wiped his hand across his mouth, and invited himself into Zevran's tent.

None of that expectation included any of the filth Alistair was murmuring into his ear and biting at his neck. He also didn't expect to be thrusting up against Alistair's thigh, chasing his orgasm, though it's not a disappointing turn of events.

"Come on, come on, please, Zevran, show me…"

Ever obliging, he comes with Alistair hissing his name and tonguing wet circles against his jawline.

"That was beautiful," Alistair says, and there's a tinge of something in his voice. Zevran's not so full of himself that he'd call it reverence, but it's still flattering to the highest degree and he doesn't say anything to ruin the moment. He gives Alistair the slightest tug by the arm and they fold up together 

"You don't have to go back to your tent. It's so dark out there, what if you were to trip?" Zevran says. He's careful about how he says it, but neither of them have moved a muscle in ages, so he thinks it's a safe bet.

It is. Alistair is asleep. He grunts something, presumably affirmative, possibly he's dreaming of roast chicken, and presses his nose into Zevran's neck. There's no one else who's both nearby and awake to see Zevran's grin.


	6. The Fourth Skill: Be Very Sly

Zevran rises before the sun and extricates himself from a comfortable, if somewhat sticky, pile of limbs. Alistair rolls over and doesn't seem to notice.

Down by the river to clean himself, he's only half surprised to see Sereda sitting on the bank. She looks up when he approaches. He knows it's not his place to say anything, but if she has an inclination… He's not sure which way this conversation could go. But Sereda, wonderful, wonderful Sereda, launches into her own one-woman whirlwind.

"Zev. Hi, can I talk to you? Something fucked up happened last night and I'm an idiot."

"Good morning. You're not an idiot." It's something he'd say even without having a big clue to the context of her statement.

"No. Maybe. I just did something stupid."

"Who hasn't, now and again?"

"You're right. I just. I said the wrong thing to a person, a friend, and then I reacted poorly when they reacted honestly. Does that make sense?" She's talking faster and faster as she goes, but they all spend most of their time together and he's got no trouble keeping up.

"I follow you, yes."

"But in the moment, reacting poorly was me reacting honestly, so should I be feeling guilty about it? No, right? Do you think he'll understand if explain it like that?"

Zevran dips his hands into the water and splashes it over his face. It's lovely and cool and it chases the last vestiges of sleep from his mind so he parse all of Sereda's swift explanation. "I think he may if you explain it more slowly."

Sereda lets out an explosive sigh. "You know what I meant though?"

"Everyone has emotions and they can be hard to govern?"

"Yes!"

He cleans himself up and redresses quickly, not for shyness or modesty, but because Alistair's eager mouth left a red-brown mark bitten into the skin over one hip and Zevran's still unsure if Sereda needs to know, or who should be the one to tell her. Probably best to leave all that to Alistair, and better yet to say nothing until it's determined if the magic of the last night was only meant to happen once.

"Besides," she says. "If he said no to me because he's in love with you, I can hardly be mad."

A-ha. Zevran freezes for a split second, but then relaxes and turns back to her. It would require all of his cleverness and quick tonguedness to extricate himself from this devilish puzzle. "Oh, Sereda," he says, mentally preparing a long speech about the insubstantial nature of love, the fleetingness of attraction. "You see…" he starts.

A few minutes later, there's the crunching of leaves underfoot, too heavy to be Morrigan or Leliana, too light to be Sten, too two-footed to be Barkspawn.

"We must marry, preferably at once," Zevran says in and undertone as he heads back to camp and passes Alistair.

Alistair pauses and chuckles once. "Was I that promising? Wait, what?"

"I told her we're deeply in love."

"You _what?_"

Zevran speeds away as Sereda pops out of the bushes. "Alistair! Can I just talk to you for a moment about last night? You see, I had no idea …"

Rounding a corner, the last thing Zevran sees is Alistair shooting a glare at him that could wither fruit on the vine.

**Author's Note:**

> GREAT prompt, aurlana! <3


End file.
